There Has to be a Finish Line

Now, I've been feeling this foreboding for a couple of days now. At first, I thought it was because all I had to eat on Sunday morning was pancakes when I wanted bacon and eggs. Pancakes are delicious and all, but ultimately unsatisfying. Not enough salt. Salt is a finish line.

So in my brain I'm backtracking to what actually instigated this bullshit inner-gasiness, and I think I got it.

Friday night. Some bar somewhere. There is a dude handing out very obnoxious Guinness hats, and I want one so I can sell it to an idiot. Gyna has met the second microscope salesman in her lifetime, which is two more than most people, and Rob keeps on getting text messages from a number that he doesn't recognize.

"This guy has been texting me for like over a month," he shakes his head and shows me his phone, which says something like, "yo baby girl where you at"

"Why don't you just ask who it is? Be all like, 'bitch, who you be?'"

"I don't know. I told him to come here, though. Figured why not." Rob gives one of those uncomfortable snickers that I seem to be getting more and more every day from guys and it pisses me off. Not Rob, but the frequency of uncomfortable snickers. He holds up his phone again, and shows me another recent text. One of those painfully common little limericks about smooth skin and eyes like stars or whatever. I don't know. I was drinking. Everything was hilarious. (Rob, if you're reading this, post that shit in the comments).

"Dude, give me your phone."

"Why, are you going to call him or something?"

"Duh."

"Seriously?"

"Uh, yeah. Gimme your phone." He hands it over, and I plug the strange number into my phone.

Rassles: What up snatch?

"Did you text him?"

"You know it."

Rob compulsively rubs the back of his neck, "They're totally gonna respond to you. You think they would come here?"

Stranger: WHO DIZ

I love it. "Yehhhhss. Love it." After every text, I show my phone to anyone who will pay attention to me.

Rassles: Bitch wut

Stranger: Who iz diz

"Shit. Who am I? You guys. Hey, guys, come on. Give me a name."

Rassles: Kaykay

"Is this racist?" I start asking people. "Am I being racist right now?"

"If you have to ask, you're probably being racist."

"Gaaahhhh, whatever, my good-and-evil-shoulders are itching for exercise anyway."

Stranger: Awwww

Rassles: Where you at?

Stranger: On ma way home u cumn ta ma partie

"You guys, we're totally going to a party."

"What, are you still texting that guy?"

"Hell yeah."

"Wouldn't it be hilarious if we like, ran into him, like, after he finds us?"

"There's no way. This guy can't even spell 'party,' you think he's gonna triangulate some shit?"

Rassles: U know

Stranger: WHO U WIT

"Fuck. Fuck. Guys, guys, I need more names. Who'm I wit? Who'm I wit? This is hard."

"You have to say like, Tyrone."

"I think I'm just gonna say Mike and Jenny or something."

"No, Lashay," someone suggests. "We work with a Lashay."

"Oh, I love Lashay! Yeah, say Lashay."

"I know! We should have asked her to hang out."

"I don't know Lashay," I say, because I don't work with them. We. Are. So. Caucasian.

"We'll have to tell her about this."

"I think this might be racist," Gyna says through laughter.

"Fuck this, shit ain't racist," I am committed, now, "it's psychological profiling based an ethnographic study of like, what's it called, lexical innovation. I'm allowed to do shit like this because I majored in Anthropology."

"You were a Speech major."

"Same thing. Whatever. Shut up."

You know, half the time I speak I think I only have a vague understanding of the words I choose.

Rassles: Elliot n Lashay but they not cumin

Stranger: Aite i guezz

"I have to end the conversation."

"No! Don't!"

"Seriously, I don't have unlimited text messaging and this is gonna get long."

...

So there was that whole thing. And then on Saturday, there was this:

Smith Sister: What do you call a stamp collector

Rassles: Philaterist?

Rassles: No - Philatelist

Smith Sister: Yeah thanks it came to me after I texted you we are the smartest

Rassles: No - Loser.

Smith Sister: B says not awesome I say amazing

Rassles: What do you call a person who knows what you call stamp collector?

Smith Sister: My hero or shiny

Rassles: Dicknose.

And a further onslaught of other text conversations throughout the weekend.

I love it when people call and text me with questions. No one does that anymore, now that everyone's got internet on their phones. But it used to be a daily thing, getting "what's the word for" and "who's the president of" questions. Fucking internet, ruins my life as the person who knows things.

But, as I said, there was a point, and thus the foreboding event is exposed:

I am almost positive I'm going over my texting limit. I can feel it off in the distance like a fallen tree, if distance were time and the fallen tree of finance was my fucking cell phone bill that I can't afford to pay. Or salt. Fallen tree of salted finance. Should tie in fallen trees to salt, because of beginning of blog, fuck it, salt the earth and move on. Whatever. Shut up.

Lame.

...